


Gleb and Olga drabbles

by allysonkgirl



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: F/M, lyrica woodruff, max von essen, max vonesson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 08:26:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16552322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allysonkgirl/pseuds/allysonkgirl
Summary: A few stories based on the ship Gleb and Olga [or Glebga]. These fics are not meant to be historically accurate and follow the cannon of the musical. The descriptions of the characters are from the actors Lyrica and Max .





	1. Chapter 1

First- this is not historically accurate. I was intending to fit the musical storyline though I do know a bit about the period. Also, my first fanfic so I apologize about it being bad. FIrst draft and free write, but I love this pair. Thank you for reading

 

 

I had been told not to speak to the soldiers. A quick mouth would equal a quick hand or much worse especially as romanov daughter. The world was turned upside down in a way that would never be turned right again. We had lost our power- most riches [minus the jewel sewn into our dresses]. There was only so much time before they also stripped us of our lives. And for what? Revenge on a man who had fallen privy to the war. A man who even when wrong cared deeply for his country and people. Anastasia would often wisecrack to a passing Bolshevik. I had stopped trying to warn my younger sister and instead hoped to soften whatever punishment should come. Anastasia had a fire about her that was unable to be put out. If only fire was contagious. Holding one's tongue was well learned in the older children from years of balls and the fanfare of court meetings. Papa wouldn't be embarrassed or contradicted publically. Yet I found myself watching a particular guard, a young man with tall stature and a handsome face. A stoic man that treated the children fairly- or more fairly then the others. His gaze was confident and proud as if this rebellion had been the fire that forged his blade. My little sisters jokes did pull his lips slightly. General Vaganov had remained his humanity in the face of holding a family hostage. In fact, he was one of the few who hadn't been indecent with his intentions. As sure as he was behind the reasoning of what he was doing, the man hadn't lost who he was keeping in line. The only real smile would come from a tiny boy pressed to his side. Boy didn't seem to describe Gleb. Where his father was angular, his face was softer. The same steely brown eyes lost in another world. He reminded me of a haughty prince in one of the fairytale novels mother had read. A man who did not see himself as handsome and hungered after his father's image. Today was the first that he was close enough to hear. Pressed against his father's side yet standing straight as a pole. My blue eyes couldn't help taking him. It was only a matter of time before one of my siblings stepped out of line and the boy would be alone. Gleb always seemed calculating when watching his father and the other men at work. My heart roared with the fierceness his expression held. The ghost of laughter on those perfect pink lips as Anastasia and Marie attempted to explain what they had been doing like some school kid trying to keep a straight face as the class clown gave their performance. "Hello, I haven't seen you around her before. Gleb- is it? I thought I heard the general refer to you as such." I started with the courage of his almost happiness in my voice. It was only polite to bow one's head in greeting and attempt any form of manners. The soldiers could rip everything from me, but I will never give the satisfaction of showing they had ruffled my feathers. If I was to be treated like an animal, I would act like a princess until my bitter end. Gleb seemed to stare at me for a few minutes. the hatred that he knew and the kindness in his heart at war. Romanov perched on his lips. My fantasy was all but shattered. The spit and names were just as easy to envision. Somehow, the younger Vaganova was like his father. A warning tone in his voice as he spoke. Yet, my hand was lifted forward to meet that beautiful pink pout. "I am not here often, princess. Only training at my father's side. I have heard many stories about the Romanov's but a beautiful daughter such as yourself with enough manners to scratch by had not been brought to my attention."

If I am to die, Why not live while I have the chance?


	2. Au prompt- What if she lived?

The guilt of being a survivor is a heavy weight on one's conscience. Gleb had whisked me away just in time for a doctor's care and safety. Loss might be a worse pain than a bullet tearing through your body when you were expecting a family portait. Mother had made sure we were taught all the great arts of our country. While I didn't know how to sweep the streets, my talent in the arts would always give me a means of income. As much as it hurt, there was no way I could stay in Russia. It had also become a casualty of the red soldiers spilling rich blood on the pavement. The general's son may have felt the same way, but his heart bled the same. I was surprised to become face to face with the piercing gaze of the young man. His carefully combed hair and pressed clothes falling prey to the intense situation. It felt like a fever dream when an angel appeared out of the blood and pain encasing me. Those dark orbs becoming the window of ext in the cacophony of terror. He had always seemed like one of them. Even our stolen kisses were quick. Fear of what a father would say of his son's deeds. I had thought it was also who I was. Yet, It seemed that Gleb did not allow himself any pleasures. He too felt the explosion of warmth that our connected lips brought. Kissing him in the back rooms under captivity helped me feel as if I could breathe again. The carefree attitude clawing up my throat like the monster it was. The world had lost all of its hopefulness. People began to fear people and proved their worth by the murder of others. Someone in the wrong needed to also be wronged in order for the world to be right. My family had been the show of power. The whimpering of Alexie as life was snatched from him and his fight slowly left would never be something I forgot. Papa lying with his wife cradled tightly in his arms. When I was a child, He had looked deeply into my blue eyes and promised that he would always keep his babushka safe. Papa bled the same. There were things even the purest of intentions could not stop. We must sacrifice for Russia. It was what was said when we spent hours at long dances or ate little to nothing to pray for the safe return of our troops. In the end, they still sacrificed. My love for my country never died. The feeling was strangled tightly by the acts committed by our citizens. How could such a tragedy come from such love? I would never laugh with Tatiana again or tell Olga and Marie to stay close. Why were we the ones robbed? Yet, Love was a fickle thing. It slid into my life through the charming young man who lifted me from the rubble. A young man who walked feverishly and dressed me in one of his old shirts. The last memory I have of that night was his shouts for someone to help his poor comrade who had accidentally been shot while he was working with his gun. Life was a blank slate. I could lose myself in the anger and pity of what had happened to me or live on in a new role. Show the Bolsheviks that Romanov's don't die easy and taking satisfaction in the secrecy of my identity. The minute I could walk without him helping me limp along, I began dancing. The freedom of movement when a bullet had pulled through my flesh was poetic justice. An irony I enjoyed. Through Ballet, I would always be in control. I would work hard enough that my mother would have been proud to sit in the audience. The pain of what I saw put into acting. Gleb had made the days stuck in the bed easier. Teasing me with stories of his childhood. "My father took me fishing once. He had decided that I must become a man. the only problem was I couldn't keep still an fell fully clothed into the waiting water below. I did not fail though. I swam until there was something I could grab and almost died from it," Gleb mused on a particularly stormy night. His whole body engaged with the story and the laugh lines by his eyes showing their definition. The time he spent nursing me to health had me well acquainted with almost every part of Gleb. I memorized the pout of his lips that clearly came from his father. The curve of his nose or where the smile only reached his eyes when it was genuine. I watched as he drank water as some young men would beer or tea.We'd laugh as he pulled exaggerated faces or mocked the voices of the guards who barked at him. He even, occasionally, held me. The safety and warmth of those arms being one of the last things I had to connect with my family. Grand Duchess Olga no more. Just as they were in unmarked graves. I had seen his father in passing. The chills that his eye brought were indescribable. A man who once held the kindness of a deer panting by a stream now haunted by the choices he had made. Hearing the punishment for accidentally firing of a firearm made me wonder if he regretted his choice. I had caused harm everywhere I'd gone. Anastasia would have stuck her tongue out and pronounced me cursed. There was no denying how he reacted around the others. His stance rang true. I'd been warned not to make him regret the kindness he'd given me. Through recovery, I grit my teeth and used the fake manners of politeness in order to be a good and loyal comrade. I chose the name Odette when questioned. The name meant wealth. It was French and exotic. One thing that they couldn't destroy. Within a couple years, I had joined the Moscow ballet. The freedom of leaving Russia while still being a part of it. Gleb would write sometimes. Writing often would garner suspicion so he sent different names in the hopes of it looking like a powerful man feeling out a pool of talented woman instead of two lover convicts trying to keep in touch. He never missed a Russian performance though kept watch of the penniless patrons as a general much like his father.Sometimes in France, I liked to think that my grandmother and sisters were in the audience. They would laugh at the way my face would turn on the puriette or how my heart soared imaging my partner with a more distinctly Vaganov Face. Hopefully, they are up in heaven clapping for what I have done.


	3. The day you brought a smile back to my face

The guilt of being a survivor is a heavy weight on one's conscience. Gleb had whisked me away just in time for a doctor's care and safety. Loss might be a worse pain than a bullet tearing through your body when you were expecting a family portait. Mother had made sure we were taught all the great arts of our country. While I didn't know how to sweep the streets, my talent in the arts would always give me a means of income. As much as it hurt, there was no way I could stay in Russia. It had also become a casualty of the red soldiers spilling rich blood on the pavement. The general's son may have felt the same way, but his heart bled the same. I was surprised to become face to face with the piercing gaze of the young man. His carefully combed hair and pressed clothes falling prey to the intense situation. It felt like a fever dream when an angel appeared out of the blood and pain encasing me. Those dark orbs becoming the window of ext in the cacophony of terror. He had always seemed like one of them. Even our stolen kisses were quick. Fear of what a father would say of his son's deeds. I had thought it was also who I was. Yet, It seemed that Gleb did not allow himself any pleasures. He too felt the explosion of warmth that our connected lips brought. Kissing him in the back rooms under captivity helped me feel as if I could breathe again. The carefree attitude clawing up my throat like the monster it was. The world had lost all of its hopefulness. People began to fear people and proved their worth by the murder of others. Someone in the wrong needed to also be wronged in order for the world to be right. My family had been the show of power. The whimpering of Alexie as life was snatched from him and his fight slowly left would never be something I forgot. Papa lying with his wife cradled tightly in his arms. When I was a child, He had looked deeply into my blue eyes and promised that he would always keep his babushka safe. Papa bled the same. There were things even the purest of intentions could not stop. We must sacrifice for Russia. It was what was said when we spent hours at long dances or ate little to nothing to pray for the safe return of our troops. In the end, they still sacrificed. My love for my country never died. The feeling was strangled tightly by the acts committed by our citizens. How could such a tragedy come from such love? I would never laugh with Tatiana again or tell Olga and Marie to stay close. Why were we the ones robbed? Yet, Love was a fickle thing. It slid into my life through the charming young man who lifted me from the rubble. A young man who walked feverishly and dressed me in one of his old shirts. The last memory I have of that night was his shouts for someone to help his poor comrade who had accidentally been shot while he was working with his gun. Life was a blank slate. I could lose myself in the anger and pity of what had happened to me or live on in a new role. Show the Bolsheviks that Romanov's don't die easy and taking satisfaction in the secrecy of my identity. The minute I could walk without him helping me limp along, I began dancing. The freedom of movement when a bullet had pulled through my flesh was poetic justice. An irony I enjoyed. Through Ballet, I would always be in control. I would work hard enough that my mother would have been proud to sit in the audience. The pain of what I saw put into acting. Gleb had made the days stuck in the bed easier. Teasing me with stories of his childhood. "My father took me fishing once. He had decided that I must become a man. the only problem was I couldn't keep still an fell fully clothed into the waiting water below. I did not fail though. I swam until there was something I could grab and almost died from it," Gleb mused on a particularly stormy night. His whole body engaged with the story and the laugh lines by his eyes showing their definition. The time he spent nursing me to health had me well acquainted with almost every part of Gleb. I memorized the pout of his lips that clearly came from his father. The curve of his nose or where the smile only reached his eyes when it was genuine. I watched as he drank water as some young men would beer or tea.We'd laugh as he pulled exaggerated faces or mocked the voices of the guards who barked at him. He even, occasionally, held me. The safety and warmth of those arms being one of the last things I had to connect with my family. Grand Duchess Olga no more. Just as they were in unmarked graves. I had seen his father in passing. The chills that his eye brought were indescribable. A man who once held the kindness of a deer panting by a stream now haunted by the choices he had made. Hearing the punishment for accidentally firing of a firearm made me wonder if he regretted his choice. I had caused harm everywhere I'd gone. Anastasia would have stuck her tongue out and pronounced me cursed. There was no denying how he reacted around the others. His stance rang true. I'd been warned not to make him regret the kindness he'd given me. Through recovery, I grit my teeth and used the fake manners of politeness in order to be a good and loyal comrade. I chose the name Odette when questioned. The name meant wealth. It was French and exotic. One thing that they couldn't destroy. Within a couple years, I had joined the Moscow ballet. The freedom of leaving Russia while still being a part of it. Gleb would write sometimes. Writing often would garner suspicion so he sent different names in the hopes of it looking like a powerful man feeling out a pool of talented woman instead of two lover convicts trying to keep in touch. He never missed a Russian performance though kept watch of the penniless patrons as a general much like his father.Sometimes in France, I liked to think that my grandmother and sisters were in the audience. They would laugh at the way my face would turn on the puriette or how my heart soared imaging my partner with a more distinctly Vaganov Face. Hopefully, they are up in heaven clapping for what I have done.


	4. the portrait of a solider and princess

I had often wondered if my affections were received. Gleb Vaganov could easily see me as the romanov daughter worthy of a lie or two or some passing fancy. He didn't seem to be the kind of man to check off all those boxes. I had yet to feel something like this before. Dancing with the party guests had always felt like a chore. Dancing with Papa was the brief bliss of every night. Tatianna had saved an old notebook. The children and I had given each other small pieces of pastels in order to make it last. Being a prisoner gave us quite the different amount of luxuries then any other royal. Anastasia used to draw often back at the palace.I'd joked that her portrait of Grandmama was like that of a pig, but we had laughed none the same. In a world of coals and fire, I only wished Anastasia would teach me how to breathe below the surface. I had always been dumbfounded by her. After so many years, I still felt like a scientist studying the odd behavior of an animal species. Someone so brass couldn't be the only person to talk down a heated conversation. Someone who complained about parties for hours should not be the one who took care of her youngest sibling when he lagged behind the pack. The poor sickly heir. The revolution would have liked her rule. Mother rebuked a servant for picking at our plate once, but Anastasia stood up for them and said that she had taken it. There was no hiding the delight on her face as barely touched her meal. People wouldn't go hungry that night. I tried to remember all the good parts of my siblings even when they decided to call me a mother or priss. The oldest must always be ready to take account of her siblings. Where would I be should Marie be red faced cowering out of fear? It was my job to be strong and be an example. Quite the example I was sitting with a loose piece of paper and trying to remember the exact curvature of my loves nose compared to his soft jawline. Was it a centimeter or an inch? Were his eyes amber or honey brown? My fantasy had created a world in which I had a handsome solider whisking me away to freedom. That rebel smile on his lips as we ride to freedom. Something told me he would look quite good on a horse. Sketching was hard. I could never get it to look quite how my minds eye saw. How does one fit the ocean in a cup? I began to realize how often the young Vaganov appeared. His steel like stare often boring into my eyes until I turned. Gleb would either wink or look up to the sky as if a bird were catching his fancy. He was around a lot more than any other guard or trainee. His father often disappearing without the shiny black hair following behind him. Could this mean he truly cared for me? While I wasn't permitted to leave, something told me he didn't have many lost loves on the streets of Russia. An accomplished suitor wouldn't blush from time to time. He also would be more dramatic in the hopes of getting attention. Vaganov seemed like he wanted to blend in with the wall. My spine ran cold. Nerves like a pool of steam in a frozen lake. Not now. Anytime, but now. All my practiced manners could not escape this one. "What are you drawing, Moya Lyubov' [my love?" Gleb asked with curiosity. He must have seen my sea colored eyes staring angrily at the paper combined with a lovesick smile. The paper pressed to my chest faster than the speed of light. "I- Marie is writing a story about a prince- and I - I am illustrating." I stammered. Hopefully, I didn't sound as idiotic as I thought. His laughed eased my tightening chest slightly. Something in my demeanor spoke a different language. A familiar smile came to his perfect lips. That was something hard to perfect in any photo. One day, history would remember his cheek bones and bold eyes. Calloused fingers rubbed gently against my arm. The tapping was like electricity coursing through me. "Olga, I never knew you drew. May I see it?" My lips parted as he kissed my hand "I'd like to know what you envision a prince to be so I can beat him in a tournament. the boy with a gun usually wins."


End file.
